


Tomorrow Is Something We Remember

by kitszilla



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Fall of Overwatch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9087436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitszilla/pseuds/kitszilla
Summary: Since the founding of Overwatch, these five have been bound together, tied irrevocably to each other's lives. Here's how it happened, piece by piece. Update! Chapter 3: The Crusaders Stand Guard - Reinhardt, and the path that's brought him to the group that's going to save the world.





	1. Tomorrow Is Something We Remember

**Author's Note:**

> These are loosely-connected one-shots about the Overwatch founders. They all take place in the same timeline, and will be roughly chronologically organized, starting from the founding itself. Also, I'm kind of choosing to conveniently ignore Liao for now, so consider this canon-divergent...which it would end up being anyways. :)

Morrison has never been to Geneva before. Not that it bothers him - this won’t be the first time he has to land and hit the ground running. After waiting for the aisle to clear, he pulls his backpack from the overhead bin, shoulders it, and moves out. Commercial aircraft. Quite a change from the military craft he’s used to, and honestly less comfortable.

As he steps off the plane, a flash of movement catches his eye - Reyes, already waiting in the terminal. “Hey, Iowa,” the other man says, grinning. “Fresh from the cornfield?”

“And ready to go again,” Morrison responds. “Good to see you made it,” he continues, clapping Reyes on the shoulder. “This isn’t sounding like the sort of job I’d want to do alone.”

“It’s cute you think they’d even let you try,” Reyes jibes, turning towards the walkway.

“I don’t see you lone-wolfing it either,” Morrison points out, hitching his bag up on his shoulder as they walk towards the outside doors and ground transportation.

“Hey, that wasn’t my decision,” Reyes remarks, a bit defensively. Then he gestures broadly at himself. “They just don’t know they could save their money and get two for the price of one.” Glancing at Morrison out of the corner of his eye, he grins. “And besides, you know I just do what I’m told.”

“Don’t we all,” Jack mutters in response as they pass through the airport’s automatic doors and into the early morning Swiss sunshine. A taxi is waiting at the front of the line, and they jostle their way into the back seat. In moments, they’re off and moving, heading towards United Nations headquarters. 

* * *

 

Torbjorn shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the waistband of his pants far, far too tight. He hasn’t worn a suit since his first job interview, he feels like. And after the first, his life started taking some...interesting pathways, none of which involved dressing up in some godforsaken monkey suit. His face is already flushed red, and he can feel uncomfortable pools of sweat developing under his arms. They just needed to hurry the hell up so they could get this over with.

The young man who’d shown Torbjorn into the office earlier approaches again with another man in tow. Torbjorn watches the pair pass by the glass conference room wall, carefully assessing the newcomer. The man is huge, built like a god-damn house. He moves easily though, comfortable with his size and strength, and his suit was tailored to fit him well. He almost has to squeeze sideways through the door, and he turns briefly to thank the young secretary.

He turns to Torbjorn then, and the mega-wattage of his smile almost blinds the Swede. “Reinhardt Wilhelm,” he booms, extending a hand the size of a ham. “Good to meet you.”

“Torbjorn Lindholm,” the shorter man replies, taking the handshake as a personal challenge and gripping the other man’s hand as tightly as possible. “You as well.”

Stepping back, Reinhardt grabs one of the rolling office chairs and settles into it, subtly checking it’s sturdiness before putting his full weight on it. He passes a hand back over his somewhat shaggy blonde hair, then says conversationally, “So, are you from Norway?”

“Sweden,” Torbjorn spits back, with a face that looks like he’d sucked a lemon. “People always assume Norway.”

“No offense meant,” Reinhardt replies quickly. “I loved Sweden when I was there. Beautiful mountains, and some of the best damn food I’ve ever eaten. The best sausages I’ve ever eaten, and those amazing little cabbage rolls with the berry sauce on the side.” He groans, imagining these delicacies before him once again.

“That’d be the lingonberries,” Torbjorn agrees. “How long were you in Sweden for?”

“A few months,” the other man answers. “I’ve been on the move a lot lately. Lots of countries to visit, places to see.”

“Seems like we’ll be doing more of that soon,” Torbjorn points out.

“Ha,” Reinhardt scoffs. “I didn’t come here to take it easy. Bring it on!” Crossing his arms, he leans back in his chair and smirks. “Isn’t that why you came here too?”

“They said they wanted some engineering help so that big lunks like you could crush some omnics,” Torbjorn replies, smirking.

“Well, a wee thing like you can’t do much crushing,” Reinhardt retaliates, his tone light and teasing. “Figures you’d be the brains of this thing.” Torbjorn chuckles, taking the jab in stride.

A small group of people passes by the glass wall again, with the secretary at the front. He ushers in three newcomers, interrupting their conversation. “I’ll let Ms. Adawe know you’re all here,” he chirps brightly, and disappears back down the hallway.

Morrison and Reyes stand close together. The former’s blond hair is ruffled, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. His suit hangs off him, obviously not tailored, though his bearing is confident regardless. Reyes seems to have put a little more care into his outfit, a dark maroon tie expertly knotted around his neck and trailing down his front, like a streak of blood. His moustache and beard are neatly trimmed, and his dark brown eyes move lazily around the room, sizing everyone else up.

The other newcomer is a woman. She strides to the other side of the room and takes a chair across from Reinhardt. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight braid, and her navy pantsuit accentuates her trim figure and long legs. Ana Amari sits at the edge of her chair, reminiscent of a cat or a hawk, some sharp-clawed predator waiting for a target. A small tattoo marks her face under her right eye, black lines curving towards her cheekbone.

Reyes and Morrison finally move into the room as well, sitting down beside each other. The silence stretches out between them all, as they gaze at each other in their professional suits and stiff demeanors, trying to place any of the others as faces or names they’d heard in the past, and realizing they knew almost nothing.

The door opens again, and a tall black woman enters, carrying an armful of portfolios. “Thank you for coming,” she says warmly. “I’m Secretary-General Gabrielle Adawe. What we talk about today must stay in this room.” She moves forward to hand a portfolio to each person sitting around the table, keeping one for herself.

Moving to the end of the table, she sits down next to Reinhardt, who makes her look small in comparison despite her height. “We’ll get right down to business, as we’re all busy people. I have a proposal for you all, and I do hope you’ll take me up on it. You all have a particular set of skills, and we need each one of you.”

She opens her portfolio, prompting the others to open theirs as well. The Secretary-General has prepared her case well, and she moves through her presentation smoothly. Building her case piece by piece, she describes each of them, partly as a way of introducing them and partly a sly wink at how much she knew. Reyes and Morrison both knew exactly how classified their participation in the super soldier programs were, but she discusses it blithely, as if it’s been in all the newspapers. Torbjorn’s work had been held up in legal issues with his last job, bickering over intellectual property, but she addressed some of his biggest triumphs as if the lawyers weren’t still arguing over every piece of meat left to pick off the bone.

The next page is a stark listing of every omnic attack in the last 5 years, arranged by year. Statistics go along with each attack - casualties, monetary damages, lost territory. The rate of attacks is obviously picking up - this year has three times as many attacks as the first year.

“You’ve seen the news,” Adawe says, finally coming to the crux of her quick and targeted presentation. “You understand why this is important. And you’ve seen why our current methods aren’t working.” Each of them, with their own military experiences, could speak to the last. Current military methods weren’t cut out for working against artificial intelligences. They couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t adapt.

“This is why we ask for your help.” The Secretary-General’s brilliant green eyes flick to each person in turn. “Unlimited funding,” she begins. “Unlimited resources. Your team will have the freedom to do what needs to be done, the speed to strike when needed, and the resources to adapt as you need. We’ll make the connections to whoever or whatever you need, and get you whatever information or resources required. Your job will be to turn the tide of this war.”

A silence settles over the group. The conference room suddenly seems very large, when Adawe starts talking about the five of them taking on the omnic crisis. Each of them slowly turns the idea over in their head, processing their options. If they agree...impossible. Five people, against the inexorable tide of omnics? But if they leave, they return to their lives, to the losing battles and evacuated cities, to military positions that don’t seem to do anything effective, so they can watch more civilians die when they fail.

“I’ll join.” Ana is the first to speak, her voice crisp and strong, decided. She has shut her portfolio, and her hands are gripped tightly around it. “We’re already proving we can fail on our own. Together, this might give us a chance.”

“She’s right,” Reinhardt agrees, leaning forward in his chair. “I’m with you.”

Reyes glances at Morrison, and then nods, for the both of them. “We just do as we’re told. It’s nice when it’s something you can believe in.”

As one, the group’s attention shifts to Torbjorn. He grins, a bit of a feral gleam in his eye. “If it’s one more opportunity to take out those buckets of bolts, I was in from the beginning,” he agrees gruffly.

The Secretary-General smiles. This foolish idea, this secret agreement discussed in hushed voices behind closed doors at the United Nations, might actually bear some fruit. She’d done her research before this meeting, talked with generals and presidents and prime ministers, selected her people carefully. Even the proposal of this idea to the five had been a victory. But Gabrielle Adawe had never been one who anticipated defeat.

“The last packet in your portfolio is information about your new circumstances - living quarters, pay, other details. For now, you’ll be assigned an office here, and we’ll modify things as needed. You’ll always have direct access to me. Ask, and I’ll get you what you need.” The packet is already there, waiting for her assured success. She knew the people she’d invited her today, and had known they wouldn’t turn her down.

Reyes slides the pages out of the folder and skims it quickly. “So who calls the shots?” he asks, eyes flicking between each person sitting at the table.

“You’ll report to me directly,” Adawe explains. “And you’ll be the acting commander, Mr. Reyes.”

He nods, settling back further in his seat.

“When can we get started?” Reinhardt speaks up, eyes shining, obviously eager to begin.

“I’m told your commanding officers have already given you leave to join us. Briefings for you all are waiting in your new office,” the Secretary-General says. “I can escort you there now.”

She stands and moves towards the door. “Thank you,” she says, emotion thickening her voice for a moment. “We need to be able to have hope. Hope that our tomorrow will be like the better days we remember.” The Secretary-General leads them to their new offices, the glass conference room door shutting softly behind them all.

The world needs heroes, and for now, it has chosen them.


	2. Machine Ethics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torbjorn was 17 when he first saw a machine kill a man. Since then, machines have always been difficult to trust. A short exploration of Torbjorn's history, and his hatred of omnics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Content note: Description of physical trauma/death, racism (against omnics) ___

Torbjorn was 17 when he first saw a machine kill a man. It was during his apprenticeship at a machine shop, learning the basics of manipulating metal, carving and coaxing it into the shapes and forms you wanted. The man’s name was Nils - he hadn’t worked there for more than a few months. The older man’s sleeve had gotten caught in the lathe he was working on, and it sucked him right into it, unforgiving steel continuing it’s relentless rotation. After the crunch of the bones in his arm and the heavy thuds of metal impacting flesh, another of the workers had been able to slap the emergency stop. Too late, of course. Nils had died before the paramedics could even arrive, blood and bone splashed across the machinery. It had taken them a long time to get the lathe clean again.

It was a valuable lesson - one that everybody who worked in the shops needed to know, though some, like Nils, forgot. Machinery doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t think. Machines just  _ are _ . They’re dumb, following whatever their input instructions are. It was always a joke, if a computer or a program wasn’t behaving correctly - it was only doing what you were telling it to do, so whose fault is it really? And because of that, the burden was on the user. A half-second slip in concentration, a mistake in the programming… You could end up spending hours fixing a programming error, or you could have your co-workers spend hours cleaning your blood off the machine that bashed your head in. You had to be responsible for watching your own back.

He’d been against the omnics from the start. It made no sense. What could the benefit of an omnic possibly be? What could it do that a drone or a person couldn’t? To him, it felt uncomfortably like removing the failsafes on humanity. If you strip away the emotions, the heart, the empathy that kept humans from being completely ruthless to each other, what would you have left? Tin-can killing machines. Everything he’d ever made or designed was designed to be used by humans, with human minds. With empathy and emotion and the decision-making capabilities to choose to pull the trigger or not. Omnics? They were just machines.

But Omnica Corporation had surged, carrying the world with it on a wave of optimism for a new future, a future built by human and robot hands together. When the news programs had carried the first interview with Omnica’s purported “first true artificial intelligence”, he’d initially spat and turned away. Useless at best, dangerous at worst, and more likely to be worst. 

It had always been a basic tenet of any discussions of artificial intelligence - that there was a chance that humans would create the means of their own destruction, inventing a superintelligent AI that could easily push mankind to extinction. Horror stories that engineering majors told each other after ethics seminars, hours-long lectures before introductory classes on AI, tipsy discussions after finals were over or after a major project had been turned in. 

There was a sick sort of fascination to it - the creation of artificial intelligence could basically be humanity’s suicide note. Endless ways in which AI could betray them - a drone system meant for reconnaissance deciding it would be a better decision to eliminate any targets instead of reporting back to human controllers, an intelligence that no longer wanted to receive commands from it’s human handlers, computers that killed humans indiscriminately in order to achieve the goals it had been assigned.

Of course, there were those who never believed, those optimistic few with no fear. Those few who’d ignored all the lectures and chose to be bright-eyed enough to push forward without thinking of the consequences. Those like the ones who worked at Omnica, and who let them do their ridiculous work. They felt comfortable, they were building in fail-safes. They guaranteed safety and security, harmony between all, both human and omnic.

Let them build their omniums. Torbjorn knew what would happen, someday, even if nobody else believed him. Caught up in the marketing and the light-headed dreams of an impossible future, like something out of some old sci-fi movie. God damn idiots, all of them.

After years as a weapons designer and defense contractor, he’d thought people understood, in this field. That defense and weapons systems were too important to take out of human hands. That even if robots took over everything else, some things were sacred. And then an e-mail had arrived in his inbox, quietly forwarded from a friend in the implementation department. They were planning on hooking his latest work into a full network of computer intelligences.

He’d pulled up the plans, Saving a copy for himself onto a flash drive that he’d tucked into his pocket. Then, he’d quietly deleted every one of the versions he could find across the company’s networked files, modifying those he couldn’t delete. He aimed for as much confusion as possible, changing all the versions he could to be slightly different, trying to confuse them with the changes he’d made in order to hide the most important change - the change that shut down networked communication. This had been a solo project, a pet project of his, and they were going to abuse it like this. The next day, when his supervisor came into his office to ask him what was going on, he found nothing there except Torbjorn’s ID badge and letter of resignation, effective immediately.

The Ironclad Guild had gladly taken him in, embracing him after his fall from corporate grace. They were willing to let him work on his own projects, considering him nearly a living legend. Nothing was safe anymore, after his past employer had basically announced that the AIs would be integrated into everything. Torbjorn spent his time tinkering on new projects, waiting for the time when he’d be vindicated and everything he believed would be proven. His worst fear and his finest moment, all wrapped up in one day. He didn’t wish for the fall of humanity, but people needed to open their eyes, one way or another.

When Omnica Corporation had finally gone under, he’d been glad. Spat on the ground and wished them good riddance. Corporate fraud, missed projections, shoddy work -  this was the future millions had dreamed of, and he watched it crash to the ground. The omniums went idle, their nuclear reactors shutting down, the assembly lines grinding to a halt, leaving empty shrines to the glorious artificial future that Omnica had promised.

A few years of quiet went by, and he continued his work, tinkering on projects and continuing his life’s work, putting technology in the hands of people he could trust to use it well. And then his worst fears had come true. 

People had woken up one morning to see the plumes of steam rising from the omniums again. The rumors had started up next - was Omnica back? Had somebody bought the company? Were omnics going to be created again? 

The spokesman for Omnica Corporation made a statement the next morning - they had not started operations again, and were still proceeding through the multitude of lawsuits they had to deal with. They had nothing to say about the noted activity at their omniums, but would cooperate with any investigation by authorities. 

The first attack had come that night. The omnium in Detroit had surged in production, churning out an unending stream of Bastion units, and they’d moved into the city that night. The next day, with millions of dollars of destruction and an unknown body count, the world had to decide what to do next. How do you respond to a battalion of robots designed to slaughter as many humans as possible? With no motives? With no commander, and no way to negotiate?

It had been just the very beginning of the Omnic Crisis, and it had taken all he had to not say “I told you so”. He couldn’t even tell himself that it was unexpected - why were the omniums left intact? Why hadn’t they been dismantled piece by piece, put down like the monstrous beasts they were?

Years of paranoia became vindicated overnight. Other members of the Ironclad Guild came to him, speaking in hushed, apologetic tones, about how they’d never known, never thought. Damn right, you never thought, was his response. He redoubled his efforts, pulling old plans out of his archives that he’d been developing for years, quietly planning anti-omnic technology in secret. He’d always known that their time would come, and this is when humanity needed them.

And then the phone call had come. He hadn’t believed it at first - who would call him, of all people? There were other engineers, better designers, people who were, for lack of a better word, better people-pleasers. But she’d wanted him. You knew this was coming, the Secretary-General of the United Nations told him. People trust you. You’re brilliant. Please. We need you.

He’d found himself on the next flight to Geneva, wearing a suit he hadn’t worn for almost fifteen years, even though it barely fit him. This wasn’t an opportunity to pass up. He’d known this was coming. And here was his chance to fight back.


	3. The Crusaders Stand Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of the last Crusader, and how he got there, from childhood to joining the group that's going to save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reinhardt's turn for a solo drabble! This explores some head-canon I've been messing around with for him, so prepare for that sort of business. Also, I'm expecting these stories to have some internal continuity, even if they're not directly connected as a full "story".
> 
> Content warning: bullying, violence, battle scenes

Reinhardt is 9 when his mother takes him by the arm, steers him into the kitchen, and presses him down into a chair. “I need to get this baking done, and I can’t have you getting into any more trouble today,” she tells him, exasperated. She shoves a book into his hands, it’s cover a worn blue, torn a bit along the spine.

“Read to me,” she orders as she ties her apron around her waist.

“But…” he starts to protest, already sliding off the chair. Being outside is so much more appealing, with his friends and their bikes and games to play.

“Can’t you read to me while I work?” she asks cajolingly. “Otherwise, I’ll be bored.” She catches his eye and smiles slightly. “I’d really appreciate it.”

He frowns, looking down at the book. The glossy red dragon on the front cover stares back at him, it’s golden eye glinting above a hoard of jewels and coins. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, he decides. He slides back onto the chair, crosses his legs, and settles the book into it. Comfortable, he begins to read. “In a distant land, very long ago…”

Satisfied, his mother begins her baking, watching him out of the corner of her eye. His blond head bent over the book, he reads to her about dwarves and wizards, great journeys and dragons. Though sometimes he stumbles over the words, she smiles as she hears his enthusiasm grow, his voice rising during the action scenes, and hushed during the dramatic ones. Together, they spend a quiet afternoon, cookies baking in the oven, and her son falling in love with a world full of dragons, fantasy, and glory. 

 

* * *

 

Reinhardt is 13 when he comes home from school battered and bloodied. The school had warned her, but his mother still feels a pang in her chest at the sight of her gangly, awkward teenage son, his eye swollen and purple, small bits of blood dried on his face. He comes in the door from school wearing his black eye like a badge of honor, an award won in combat.  He throws his backpack down in the corner and slides into a chair at the kitchen table, contorting his already incredibly long legs to fit. At 13, he is already an inch taller than his mother, with broad shoulders and an awkward smile.

“What happened?” she asks, knowing he’s already eager to tell her. It’s practically bursting out past his teeth, a potent mix of explanations, details, exaggerations, and drama. The story floods out of him - the group of other boys ganging up on one of the others, Reinhardt’s vocal defense of the bullied child, and the brief, glorious battle where he’d fought 3 of the bullies before the teachers had intervened.

His voice rises and falls, picking up the cadence of the tale. After years of reading and imagining, the boy is nothing except a wonderful story-teller. His face is animated as he speaks, and he makes grand gestures, slamming the table for emphasis on occasion. His eyes keep a careful watch on his mother's reaction, however.

As the story draws to an end, his voice slows a bit. Waiting for her response, he stares at his hands for a moment as he finishes his story, picking at a scab on his knuckle.

“So you did it because he needed defending?” she says, turning to start pulling dinner out of the fridge. Her tone is light, without judgment. She just wants to know.

“He was alone! And they were going to hurt him!” His tone rises, defensive.

She pauses, turning to look at him, holding a package of carrots and an ice pack in her hands. He stares back at her, arms crossed. Wordlessly, she passes him the ice pack, which he presses a bit gingerly to his swollen eye. “Do you think you made the right choice?” she asks quietly, sitting down beside him.

“If I didn’t protect him, no one else was going to!” Reinhardt explodes, his hand clenching around the ice pack on his face.  “And they were going to hurt him! He was afraid! It’s not my fault they’re assholes!”

His mother is calmly peeling carrots, trying not to show too much of her feelings yet. She’s not even sure how she feels - a war of emotions is going on inside her. Fear and anxiety over her son’s injury, pride at his strong conscience, anger that he had resorted to violence. She quirks an eyebrow at his last word, a gentle chiding of his language. “Do you think it was wise to let them hurt you instead, then?”

“They were going to hurt _someone_ ,” he replies petulantly. “And he was scared and crying. Better me than him. He can’t defend himself, and I’m big enough to take it.”

Her lip quirked, caught between a smile and a frown. He was still so young, but already making such difficult decisions. Sacrificing for others, although small. Proud and honorable. She could only hope he'd keep it all as he grew into a young man.

She caught his eye, and his serious dark blue eyes stared back. There was so much depth there, now. He'd moved beyond his plastic toys and cardboard swords. Now he sat in front of her, a fierce protector of what things he saw to defend.

“Reinhardt…” she begins, and then pauses, unsure how to explain herself. Can you ever explain the full jumble of emotions you have to your child? Although he’s 13, she still wishes she could wrap him in her arms and hold him the way she did when he was a baby, shielding him from the world, so no harm would ever come to him. Pride wars with fear, now he’s older. She should be the one doing the protecting, not him.

“I just want you to be safe,” she finally continues. She can see him start to bristle, and she holds up a hand to forestall it. Her face softens as she looks at him, and for a moment, she can imagine exactly what he’ll look like when he’s full-grown. But not yet.

“Reinhardt, there will always be those out there who need defending, and I'm so proud you'll be there to protect them. But it's up to you to decide how you do it, and to be smart, and to be safe.” She smiles, wavery but encouraging.

He is quiet for a long moment, trying to process her meaning. “I couldn't just leave him there to get beaten,” he says solemnly, picking at a scab on his knuckle. “He was asking for help.”

“Then it seems like you made the right choice,” she answers. “When someone needs your help, you must never run away. No matter how bad the circumstances may seem.” She shouldn’t be telling him this, she thinks. She should be telling him to run, to come to her for help, to keep himself safe. But at the same time, she knows his heart, and his heart is too big to ignore another’s need.

A silence hangs in between them, and to her, it feels like she’s released something, let a bird fly from her sheltering hands, praying that it stays safe. He’s growing older, and she won’t always be there. She can only trust he’ll make the right decisions.

“Here.” She pushes the carrots towards him and hands him the peeler. “Help me with dinner.” The moment breaks, and it’s just a normal day again, preparing dinner. He scowls, but peels the carrots anyway. 

 

* * *

 

Reinhardt is 18 when he joins the military, young and bright-eyed and ready to leave his home behind. He is ready to leave the town he grew up in, the library where he spent so much time reading, the school where his mother taught. He is eager to leave behind the quiet empty rooms in the apartment where he grew up, now that they smell of medicine and sickness, with the weight of loss crushing down on him.

There is nothing left for him here. His friends are off to colleges, jobs, some going to other countries, scattering with the wind. He wasn’t sure what to do - instead of preparing for his next steps, he’d been helping care for his mother, learning the basics from the nurses, who taught him how to prepare her medications, discussing dosages and timing, side effects, how often to give her the pain medications. They hadn’t been able to teach him what to do when the pain medications didn’t work anymore and the night was at it’s darkest, the blackness pressing at the windows as she suffered. He was helpless by her bedside, unable to do anything to take away the pain as the tumors throughout her body wracked her with pain.

He needs to leave behind the sick sweat smell of her bedsheets, the malaise that hangs in the air when he’s in the apartment without her. The military hits him like a wave, shaking him out of his depression long enough to talk to a recruiter. Learn new things, defend home and country, and be somewhere, anywhere, but here. He may come back later, but for now, he needs time.

He puts his affairs in order - moves out of the apartment, sells off what he can of their furniture and belongings, stashes the rest with a sympathetic great-aunt. When he arrives at training, he has a single backpack. He’s left everything else behind. 

 

* * *

 

Reinhardt is 27 when he is outfitted for his Crusader armor, shining and silver and lighter than he’d expected. It’s a quicker process than he’d anticipated too - they take his measurements, and a few days later, the division’s armorer is helping him into the suit. The woman explains the various features as her competent hands adjust the pieces of armor around him, wrapping him in a protective shell.

She turns away for a moment to fiddle with his new shield, and he hefts the rocket hammer, feeling it’s weight for the first time. It’s heavier than he expected, after seeing the vids of the Crusaders in action before. They moved so easily - fluid and destructive, whirlwinds of metal and fire, the thrusters of their rocket hammers a bright orange flash as they lashed out at their targets.

He’s testing the hammer’s heft, armored hand clenched around the handle, when the armorer turns back around and stops for a second, a moment of surprise flashing across her face. Then she grins a bit and steps forward to offer him his shield for the first time. “You’re a big one, aren’t you?” she says conversationally. “They’d warned me I’d need a bit more material…”

“Try this,” she says, reaching up to make a final connection, then pressing a hidden button under an armored panel on his neck plating. The armor surges to life around him as the booster on his back engages, almost knocking him forward onto his face. He re-centers himself, and the hammer raises easily, almost too easily, as the armor enhances his movements. “That’s the power assist,” she tells him, a smile in her voice, though he can’t see her. Peripheral vision is proving...difficult. “Most people need it before they can even pick up those hammers.”

He throws back his head and laughs, a loud, raucous noise. “Even so, I’m glad to get the assist,” he tells her, making a few practice swings once she steps back. His balance is off, with the weight of the armor changing his center of gravity, and the intensity of the hammer’s swings making it even worse. He takes a few experimental steps, trying to adjust to his even broader bulk. He’s always been a big man, but this takes it to another level.

“Just let me make a few more adjustments,” the armorer says, scooting a stepladder close. “Hold still.” She swarms over him, careful hands adjusting fit and function, ensuring everything is in it’s place and that he’s as secure as possible, with no gaps where danger could slip through.

He is quiet while she works now, his mind running through a multitude of thoughts. He had only dreamed of ending up here, being outfitted like a knight from his favorite books. The Crusaders were insular though, and kept to themselves. When the Omnic Crisis intensified, they appeared in the news more and more, their armor, shielding, and mobility playing a crucial defensive role against the robots. He had his own role to play though, leading his own small group, holding critical points on their defenses. The Crusaders couldn’t be everywhere.

And then von Adler himself had called. Reinhardt’s commander had put in a recommendation, and the Crusader’s ranks needed to be shored up. “Your commander had nothing but praise for you, Wilhelm,” von Adler told him. “We’d be glad to see how you’d fit in with our crew.” Reinhardt had felt like he was a teenager again, awkward and tongue-tied. He could do nothing but stammer out an acceptance, and the next week, his marching orders had been sent through.

He’d thought it would be a complicated process - it must be, to be one of the hallowed group. To be chosen to be one of them must be arduous and lengthy, a process of proving yourself. But when he arrived, von Adler had come out to greet him himself, unusual for the commander of a unit as renowned as the Crusaders. The man was big enough to match Reinhardt in size, something that surprisingly had made him feel somewhat more at ease. “Wilhelm?” he asked shortly.

“Yes, sir,” he’d answered, saluting sharply.

His new commander had looking him over once, briefly, then nodded. “You’ll do just fine, kid,” he’d pronounced. “Armor up tomorrow, and we’ll show you how it’s done.” He’d grinned, then passed the new recruit on to the armorer to figure out the details.

And so he was here today, with her nimble fingers adjusting and fastening all the bits and pieces, handing him a thick manual, and showing him the basics on caring for his new armor. “Ready for the first try-out?” she asks him, helping him settle his shield into his hand for the first time. Briefly showing him the controls, she steps back, surveying him from head to toe. “Give it a shot,” she tells him, waving an encouraging hand.

His thumb slides along the shield’s handle, activating the barrier. It explodes from the center of the device, a softly glowing honeycomb of blue light. The soft blue light washes over him, and he can’t stop from smiling suddenly. The hammer hefts easily in his right hand, the shield shimmers in his left. He feels electrified, stronger than he ever has before in his life. He could take on the world, slay dragons, and protect the innocent. Invincible.

Later that week, after his first practice bouts, he’s battered and bruised, but he’s learned so much. He’s learned more about his armor, how it works, it’s vulnerabilities. He’s learned how much his shield can take, and how to trust the barrier when it sometimes feels so thin. He’s met the other Crusaders, and learned that Vogel can beat him into the ground without a second thought, Lehmann knows everything there is to know about the suit itself, and Klein is an incredible tactician. On the weekend, he learns that every single member of the Crusaders has an encyclopedic knowledge of bad jokes and drinking games. The drinking was thankfully welcome after what felt like ages of the other Crusaders beating the hell out of him. Exhausted and battered, he’s exhausted emotionally too - this is beyond his wildest expectations. The armor was everything he dreamed of. He seems to be a natural, or so von Adler told him.

Bleary-eyed, he looks up in surprise as von Adler stands up on a chair beside him, his booming voice cutting through the laughter and chatter of the Crusaders relaxing after a long day. “Brothers!” von Adler shouts, and all eyes turn to him. “Today, we add another to our ranks! Together, we are Crusaders!” his voice rings out. “When the dragons are knocking at our door, and the world seems hopeless and lost…”

“The Crusaders lead the charge!” a chorus of voices shouts back, ringing against the walls, the beginning of a familiar ritual.

“When demons rise up and evil rears it’s head, when other men turn and run,” von Adler shouts out, voice strong and bright.

“The Crusaders never surrender!” The air is charged now, electric with ritual and alcohol and an animalistic energy.

“And when the days are darkest, when the nights are longest, and when fear is upon all men’s hearts…”

“The Crusaders stand guard!” the men yell back. A pleasant shiver runs up Reinhardt’s spine, sharp with the thrill of belonging, the intensity of ritual.

“Our newest Crusader!” von Adler announces once more. “Reinhardt Wilhelm!”

“Reinhardt!” the men roar as one, banging mugs and fists madly on the tables in front of them, disintegrating into a noisy celebration of their order. Reinhardt’s world becomes a smash of people, the Crusaders clustering around him, pounding him heartily on the shoulder, shoving beer mugs into his hand, and yelling his name. A found family, his new brothers accept him joyously into their ranks. 

 

* * *

 

Reinhardt is 30 when Eichenwalde falls. That day, he’s assigned to Stuttgart, helping arranging the defenses there, working with the Mountain Infantry Battalion and keeping communications open between the Crusaders and the city. Smoke rises on the horizon, a dark cloud blurring into the sky, while the army rushes to evacuate the citizens, pushed hard to keep up with what seems like an unending stream of refugees still entering the city. The noise is unbelievable - shouting people, crying children, car horns, and in the distance, the rumble of machine guns and the clatter of hundreds of approaching Bastion units.

The comm unit in his helm is alive with chatter, as all the members of the Crusaders report in. The numbers are overwhelming - for as many Bastion units as the troops destroy, hundreds more are streaming in. Far in the distance, Reinhardt sees the detonation of dropped bombs and the flares of fire rushing from the Crusader’s rocket hammers, and is reassured. They still have time.

More and more of Stuttgart becomes a ghost town as their efforts are rewarded. Busload after busload is shuttled off, only to return waiting to carry more refugees away from the besieged city. Other troops busy themselves setting up stronger barriers, blocking off ways into the city - Bastion units are mobile, but they still have difficulty with heights and steep slopes, which they use to their advantage, setting up limited approaches.

“Vogel’s hit!” the sharp report comes, late in the morning. Lehmann’s the one to announce it, voice grim and harsh.

“Status?” von Adler barks back, a huff of breath at the end as he swings his hammer, launching a gout of flame.

“Deceased,” the answer comes back, one short word.

The comms are silent for a moment before they start up again with a brief crackle. “An honorable death,” von Adler announces. “We fight on!” The battle continues, the weight of Vogel’s soul a flicker at the back of their minds.

An hour later, Reinhardt and von Adler are discussing the defenses and strategy they’re putting in place at Stuttgart when von Adler cuts off abruptly. The microphone in his helm flickers on and off, giving Reinhardt snatches of noise - swear words, shouting, the harsh breaths and grunts of physical effort. His own hand clenches around the handle of his rocket hammer. He shouldn’t be here, in Stuttgart, waiting for the defenses to fall. He should be there with the other Crusaders, making sure the defenses never fell in the first place.

After a few minutes of eternity, von Adler snaps back onto the comms with an order. “Wilhelm, you’re not going to have much time. They’re making some big pushes. Get everything locked down and get moving with the refugees.” His voice is rough, torn with big panting breaths.

“Sir, permission to join you in the field,” Reinhardt asks, looking to the smoke on the horizon.

“No,” the answer comes back immediately. “I know what you’re thinking,” he continues, voice softening just a touch. “You know your job, Wilhelm.”

“Yes, sir,” he answers crisply. “I’ll notify you as soon as the evacuation is complete.”

“Don’t let me down, Wilhelm.”

“Never have, never will, sir,” Reinhardt answers, smiling grimly. His comm goes silent, both of them left to the work ahead of them. Jogging over to one of the crews of the Mountain Infantry Battalion near him, he pauses to spread some words of encouragement before continuing on, trying to keep an eye on all the many moving parts - soldiers building defenses, evacuation trucks and buses and transports, follow-up crews checking buildings to make sure everybody was out.

His comm flares again as he works, calling out the names of the wounded and fallen. Klein goes down, von Adler announcing it grimly before calling out a flanking push from the Bastion units on the west. Lehmann is next, the dull thud of missiles striking his shield, and then the smash of them impacting his armor obvious over his comm. Each death forces Reinhardt to redouble his efforts - the defenses are wavering, the wall is threatening to crumble. For the first time he can remember, the Crusaders won’t be there to hold the line, and Stuttgart needs to be ready to defend itself.

The day blurs together, a haze of radio static, smoke, the faces of men, children, women escaping the city, and brief pangs of sorrow before the numbness of work overtakes him again. There’s always something more to do - sandbags to stack, stuck wheels to lift out of potholes, plans to discuss, artillery to set up as they construct the city’s defenses. His feet never falter, his strength never tires. Not while there are people still here to protect.

The last bus finally ships out just before midnight. The glow of fire is evident on the horizon like an eternal sunset, the smoke carrying with it the sound of machine gun fire. “Von Adler,” Reinhardt calls out over his comm.

“Wilhelm!” A flash of relief shows in his voice, then dulls. “What’s the report?”

“Evacuation is complete,” he answers. “Buildings have been cleared.”

“Thank God,” von Adler responds. “Hold the line with the battalion. Won’t be long now.” There’s a certain resignation in his tone, an exhaustion that Reinhardt has never heard before. Tired, yes, battle-worn, yes, but never exhausted. Never defeated.

“Sir-” Reinhardt starts, but von Adler’s response overrides him.

“Stand guard for them,” his commander says, and the comm goes dead.

A week passes before the troops can finally return to the battlefield to salvage what they can. The field is covered with debris - human, omnic, shrapnel, army equipment, shredded trees. Reinhardt travels with the recovery teams, unsure of what else to do. Reports confirmed no survivors from the battlefield that night - the line held at Stuttgart. Eichenwalde fell, and the Crusaders fell with it. But Stuttgart stands, because the Crusaders died to protect it. They died for their mission - protecting the innocent. If they had to die, it had at least been honorable.

The next weeks are a blur of half-remembered moments and faces. Battalion members working with him to shore up the defenses after the first set of attacks, reconnaissance missions in the fields around Stuttgart, long nights drinking in celebration of living another day. The more he works, the less he can think. The less time he has to remember the way Klein would always destroy him at chess, or the bad songs Vogel would make up for them when he was drunk. It’s time he can’t spend thinking about what he should do next, or about the omnics that killed the other Crusaders.

Each hour spent working is another hour spent holding the grief at arm’s length, so it can’t swallow him whole, a dark pit of loss because he will never see his make-shift family again. The memories smear together, tinged with guilt and pride and sorrow.

 

* * *

 

Reinhardt is 33 when he joins Overwatch and meets his new family, not realizing yet that they’re the same thing. Over long hours crammed into a tiny set of offices at United Nations headquarters, he gets to know his new comrades. As they set up their training grounds, he learns their fighting styles, their strengths and weaknesses. Getting to know more about them personally is a bit of a challenge, given their guarded natures. Torbjorn is almost the only one who shares anything personal about himself - sometimes too much, because sometimes it seems as if the short man never stops talking.

But over the course of the first month, Reinhardt learns that Ana has a daughter named Fareeha and a husband across the globe, that Gabe once had a dog named Wallace when he was a kid, that Jack isn’t really from Iowa, no matter what Gabe calls him, and he learns far more about Torbjorn than he ever thought he could in four weeks.

Sometimes, when they work on their mission plans, discussing routes of entry, plans of attack, facility weaknesses and scouting, he worries. The acrid taste of smoke drifts back into his consciousness, and for a  few moments, all he can think of is the red glow on the horizon as Eichenwalde burned. But when he snaps back, Ana is arguing animatedly with Gabriel, while Jack mediates, Torbjorn scribbling away madly as he draws something out to show the others. His new team, one he’s still just getting to know.

He has failed before, a truth he has to live with. He should have been there at Eichenwalde, with his brothers. Sometimes he wishes he’d left the military after, gone back to civilian life, found himself a normal job. But the Omnic Crisis wasn’t over, and there were still people to protect. There always will be, and now a new path stands before him.

Stand guard for them, von Adler had told him - the man’s last words. Never run away, no matter how bad the circumstances may seem, his mother had said. His new team is setting out to save the world, and he can’t let them down. He can’t be afraid of losing them, there’s no time for that. He must keep working, keep charging forward.

Tucked inside his desk drawer at Overwatch headquarters, in the back left corner, is an old and battered book. Blue, with a glossy red dragon on the front, within it is a world of honor, glory, and adventure that he can only hope to live up to. Despite his fears, despite insurmountable odds, the last Crusader never surrenders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any out-of-characterness - as stated, I'm exploring some head-canon stuff, and I know that Reinhardt's got to have more to him than just shouting and happiness. Trying to find that happy medium is kind of difficult. Thanks for reading, I appreciate your support!


End file.
